Some things can't be forgotten
by Papaverus
Summary: Okay so this is the first real thing I've ever written, I'm new to writing (and a little nervous). I wrote this after playing Mad Father, it's based on 'true end', and it won't really make sense if you haven't played it. As I mentioned previously I am really new to writing so I'd greatly appreciate any tips/suggestions/feedback. I hope somebody enjoys it :)


It is the peak of July and a warm, latent summer breeze drifts through the rippling leaves. The forest air is alive with the song of life: Birds, squirrels, rabbits, butterflies. Everything resonates with tranquillity and the harmony of nature. This is a perfect place.

Seemingly so.

The amber light of the sun filters through an emerald canopy, settling on the russet coloured roof of an amicable wooden cabin. Petite windows are set into the walls of the little house, teal timber frames supporting old, dappled glass. The slight undulations on its thick, semi-transparent surface are a relic from another age- the comforting, handmade look that's been drowned by mass produced brick and mortar. Nestled in these sentimental windows are dainty flower boxes, overflowing with bunches of herbs, fungi and other plants commonly used for medicinal purposes. Broad, worn wooden slats serve as the steps up to a homely porch, at the precipice of which lies a wizened oak door. It is an unusually small door- a tall man would have to duck to enter- but it fits the cosy countenance of the tiny cottage. Its perfection seems so absolute it almost couldn't be real. It has the semblance of a house from a fairy tale, a doll's house. It screams "_Comfort!" _ with its poignantly snug presence. But there are positively less comforting screams that arise from this place, in the depths of obscurity, hidden is this placid haven. Along the surface of the door run deep groves like rivers on a map, with tiny tributary cracks trickling off into nothing. A hole has been carved into this fissured surface by the repeated _tap tap tap _of a doorknocker. The brass door handle is round and battered, with a ring of grey where the metal has been dirtied by hands twisting it over and over. Many people have traversed this pleasant forest, trekked up these short steps and tapped on the door. So many people.

They come for the aid of a young doctor, no older than seventeen, who resides here so even the poorest souls get the medical help they need. Said doctor is hard at work on this summer morning. She is in the middle of a surgery.

Though the exterior of the house is coated in the warm rays of the sun, the interior is dim. Heavy curtains are drawn so that not even a hint of natural light shines in this room, the only illumination comes from candles which cast a pallid yellow glow. A glint of silver twinkles in the gloom. A scalpel. This sliver of cold metal reflects the light, though its surface is sullied by a ribbon of crimson. Blood is to be expected; it is a surgery after all… The doctor lets the thin blade clatter onto her wooden work bench, and steps back to admire her work. She rests her hands on her hips, and looks down with a smile of satisfaction. Her arms are coated in a sticky, viscous liquid which covers her from elbow to fingertip like extravagant, velvet gloves. These scarlet accessories almost match her attire, which is curiously fancy for such activities. She wears a long, navy dress, buttoned neatly at the collar all the way down to the neat lace trim of a skirt bustling with pretty white petticoats. On her feet she wears sensible leather boots which make a satisfying _clack_ as the hard heels make contact with the floor. She has also donned a delicate white apron which falls down about six inches above the hem of her skirt. It's tied around her neck and waist with large, puffy white bows. The young woman often wears bows, she has done since she was very small. The gloves are matched with the splatters of dirty red staining the ivory apron. Red and white. Blood and bone.

"A fine sample." She whispered matter-of-factly to herself. The doctor took extreme pride in her work, and this patient was no exception. Despite her young age, the girl was an expert in her field- after all she _had_ been practising for a very long time. Ever since…

"Indeed, Aya. I shall dispose of the remaining materials myself."

She frowned at Maria's interruption. Aya's brows furrowed over her cobalt eyes, now tinted with annoyance. The doctor's fringe swayed, hovering just above her nose, shadowing the top portion of her face. Aya's hair was a rich ebony and it's cropped style suited her dainty features well. She turned to face her assistant, Maria, who now looked upon her young mistress with a worried expression.

"That can wait. Fetch me a towel so I can clean up." The doctor's assistant nodded at her superior's request, and scurried off to fetch a bowl of warm water and clean cloths. _She is excellent. Her work is sublime. If only you were here to see it, doctor. You would be so pleased with how your favourite doll turned out. _Maria was, in turn, proud of her own work. She often contemplated Aya with her jade gaze; thinking how well she had nurtured her, loved her, mothered her. _Fathered her. Taught her. Just how you would have wanted. She is so much like you, doctor…_

After she had cleaned herself up and set Maria cleaning the Operating Room, Aya returned to her study, the first room of the house. She carefully dislodged a tattered leather notebook from a chest under her desk and began to write an account of the day's procedure. _Patient 76: A pretty child of 8 or 9, honey blond hair that reached down to her waist. What an act of serendipity! I have been longing for a good few weeks for a patient with blond hair for this lovely set of violet eyes I've been saving- and here she is! When she is complete I think I shall add her to my prize collection… _

Aya scribbled furiously in her leather bound book. One of her favourite things to do was catalogue a brilliant surgery, although she had nearly reached the end of yet another book and storing them had become a nuisance. The doctor had positioned her study so she could work and yet still hear approaching customers, and therefore had to make sure her samples and any evidence of her studies would go unseen. Many large cupboards were fixed to the wall and lined with shelves, as well as a multitude of bookcases, yet Aya's most precious notes were kept in a locked chest beneath her writing desk, completely safe and protected from the wandering eyes of her patients. _It wouldn't do for them to be unsettled…_

Suddenly there was an insubstantial thudding sound emanating from the doorway. _A knock. _Aya realised, startled by the unexpected visitor. _Funny, _she thought to herself, _I can normally hear people walking towards the house, or at least up the steps…_ Still pondering this stranger's eerily light-footedness, she rose from her chair and padded towards the door. As she moved she felt an ethereal chill sweep over her. It made her stagger a little. _Tha-that feeling… I have not felt it since…_

_ Since…_

_ Since the night father died. _

_ It's the aura of the dead... _

And in that instance she was reverted back to the child she had been so long ago. The innocent child who had had death thrust upon her.

_ Shut up! Shut up shut up shut up! _Aya screeched for her conscience to be silent, and it was, though she felt it fade away with a smug, self-satisfied grin. It was always trying to guilt her, but it wouldn't work. She was immune to guilt. Impervious to remorse. Impenetrable to contrition. Taking in a lungful of air, she steeled herself to open the door…

But it creaked open all on its own. Aya lifted her arms to shield her blinded eyes from the brilliant rays of light that bombarded her. As she blinked and adjusted herself to the brightness, she saw a figure silhouetted in the doorway. She squinted at the stranger, speculating on his silence, trying to decipher his appearance through her temporarily damaged vision.

It took only a moment. A few meagre seconds for her sight to clear and the boy before her, the boy she had been determined to forget, to swim up to the surface of reality from the depths of her unconscious.

_ No…_

His tattered, bloodied clothes still hung in shreds from his melancholy form. Shoulders slumped in forlorn exhaustion; he lifted his anguished gaze to meet her eyes. Tears welled up, once again obscuring Aya's view, but it didn't matter. The regret she had repelled for six years came crashing down like a lead weight, crushing her resolve, obliterating her confidence and turning her pride into smoke and ash.

Limp blonde locks fell across the youth's face. His burnt, horrible face. The boy's single brown eye stared right through her, his gaze expelling the ache of despair and betrayal. Peering into the empty black chasm of his right eye socket was like looking into the dark sinews of Aya's own soul. She hated what she found there.

"Why, Aya?" he begged. It wasn't a real question, merely an unanswerable plea.

There was no hate in his voice, as Aya had expected. It was the sheer agony of unrelenting grief. Aya collapsed into a heap, sobbing and screaming and shaking her head.

_ No! _

She tried, oh how she tried to withstand the guilt, reject it, but it consumed her. She stared back at him lifelessly. Her voice has dissipated into a wordless whimper.

Aya knew he would keep asking for all eternity. And it didn't matter what her answer was.

"Why?"


End file.
